#control. he is you. his decisions are always yours.

[daenysx]

I seriously love the vibes of all your sleepovers. Can I ask for modern!au where James Potter babies and comforts reader when she’s having a hard time? If not totally understand <3

James has big hands. Big, not so soft because the air is dry and he neglects applying hand cream, but always gentle. He's really good at putting on the right amount of pressure as he rubs wide circles on your back. You kind of want to melt here and never deal with anything else.

It's a bad day. More like a bad week. You can find reasons or maybe excuses if you try hard enough, but you don't want to. You feel beyond overwhelmed, so emotional but also so empty. Something disturbs your stomach, your legs get numb if you don't stretch them enough. Your body doesn't feel like it's yours and- that's too annoying to be true.

James is here. He always is. His fingers press on the tight spots on your back and you try to relax. It works, mostly. It works better when he kisses you.

"Can I get a kiss?" you ask him with a low voice. You know he tries to be cautious, not overbearing, just here for you. You don't mind asking for things.

"Of course," he says, cupping your cheek to get you closer. "You can have as many kisses as you want."

This is a good promise. You feel better, focusing on James' lips and controlling your breathing. His thumb gently circles on the skin of your neck, you sigh softly. He takes his time, cuddling up and holding you in his lap. A hand goes on your thigh to stroke the tight muscle.

"I feel better," you tell him. He never asks verbally, but you know he likes it when you let him know. Your fingers linger on his cheeks, he smiles broadly, the kind of sunshiny one you love seeing so much.

"Happy to hear that, angel girl," he kisses your neck sweetly. "Are you hungry? Maybe we can order something, Sirius was talking about a new place."

You shake your head. "Can we decide later?" Suddenly making the simplest decisions is hard.

"Sure," he agrees. "You know, actually I changed the coffee brand we always get. Do you wanna try it?"

"Hmm," it sounds good, you just don't think you can leave the bed.

"I can just make it really quick."

"I'm gonna come with you to kitchen," you tell him. "Just- 5 minutes later."

He laughs, and it's bright. He's so strong as he pulls you to his chest, hugging you so tight. "My sweetheart, did I tell you how much I love you today? You smell so good, I wish we could just stay like this forever."

"I love you." you say with your softest voice.

"I love you, I love you so much," he kisses his way on your neck, holding you in his lap so tight. "My sweetest angel, I love you so much."

You laugh, smiling so big as he kisses you again and again. He keeps holding you until you're ready to go to kitchen, you're on clouds, being in love with him feels so safe- you like being in his arms. You like being kissed so sweetly. You like how you can stop thinking, he's here and he thinks of everything when you can't.

starry girl sleepover ☆

[squidwriting]

#3: All In Selfishness

✁ — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

⇥ Masterlist

⇥ Taglist (hope they're all working!) @ferrari-curse, @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved, @robertthehoover, @annasnape7, @menabuser16, @swthrtbyeol, @foulbreadpaenut, @earphonejack09, @namelesslosers, @pearl-pool, @ameagrice, @ayyylol, @honeynanamin, @ninglovr

⇥ Pairing Hwang In-ho x fem!reader

⇥ Warnings Spoilers for Season 1 & 2, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of injuries & death

⇥ A/N: Thank you for all the likes and reblogs! I'm so glad you like the story! 😭💝 (Edit: Taglist)

⇥ [#2] | [#4]

✁ — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"I'm sorry about earlier, everyone. I don't know what happened."

In-ho smiled sheepishly as he looked around the small group. "No, it's okay," Dae-ho answered with a wave of his hand. "Don't be," 456 agreed. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made the last kick." 

Dae-ho recalled the games with utmost enthusiasm, demonstrating how everyone succeeded in their task. You smiled lightly, watching the group in silence. Your eyes finally landed on In-ho. He had almost lost it earlier, when he had failed at Paengi chigi several times in a row. You had never seen him so agitated, so out of control. He had always been calm, even in the most difficult situations. Part of you wondered if it was all just an act - especially when you had realized that he had been throwing with his right hand.

In-ho was left-handed after all. 

"What's wrong?" In-ho's voice was as gentle as you remembered, his face showing real concern for the first time since you had met him. "Uhm," you stuttered, ripped out of your thoughts, and cursed internally when you realized you had stared just a tad too long at him. "Nothing," you mumbled after a moment, tearing your eyes away from him. "I just-.. thank you all for letting me be a part of your team." 

You sighed deeply, and wrapped your arms around your legs, pulling your knees up to your chin. What a messed up situation. There he sat, the love of your life - so close, yet so far away. 

"Listen," Dae-ho said, standing up from his spot across from you. "Perhaps we should learn each other's names. I still don't know your names, gentlemen. Just yours, Miss," he smiled brightly at you. "I'll start. I'm Kang Dae-ho," he declared proudly, raising his fist. 

"Wow. 'Big Tiger.' Cool name," 390 chuckled, pointing up at the younger man. "My name is Park Jung-bae. My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous." 

"I'm Ryu Soo-yeon," you spoke up when everybody looked at you expectantly. "Soo means endure and yeon means repeatedly." 

"Ooooh, that's deep," Dae-ho said, his eyes widening a little. "Did you have very strict parents?" 

You chuckled a little at his remark and shook your head. "No. They weren't the one to give me that name. I chose it for myself," you said, trying to decide if you should elaborate further or not. Before you came to a decision, In-ho spoke up.

"Why?" 

"Well," you swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath. "I lost memory about 10 years ago. Everything I was before just... disappeared in the blink of an eye. It almost broke me, not knowing who I was and where I belonged."

A heavy silence settled over the small group as they all listened to your words. "I couldn't ask anybody for help. I mean... there was nobody who could give me back what I lost, right? I had to live with that loss every single day, with no hope that I'd ever the same again. So, one day... I decided to move on. Literally. I left the city and everything behind, including my legal name. Ryu Soo-yeon was born. 'Endure repeatedly'. Live with the pain and emptiness every single day." 

Jung-bae whistled lowly, trying to ease the tension that had built up around them. "Then... how did you end up in this place?" He asked after a few moments. You stared into the distance, away from the men around you, trying to come up with a coherent answer. The truth was not an option, even though you detested lying. 

In-ho watched and listened in silence, trying to make some sense of what he was hearing. Ever since that day when you woke up from your coma, he had wondered how you had been. 

You had refused to see him - and no nurse or doctor had let him into your room from that moment on. He had been shut out - from your room, your life, and your heart. Not once did he blame you, he just wanted to understand. 

He wanted you back. 

And if every effort he made, in every feeling he felt - he never stopped and asked himself how you must have felt. 

He understood that now.

But would it have changed anything? 

Would anything be different now, had he asked himself that question? 

Was he wrong to be numbed and blinded by grief?

"I'm-," you started, shaking your head slightly, "I found... that little card with the phone number... and I guess I was too curious for my own good."

In-ho blinked, when he noticed something.

Something he had first seen when you two were still children. Something that had not changed when you two got older and got married. 

Your lips had twitched ever so slightly; barely noticable to the eye. He himself would have missed it, had he not been so attuned to you. 

Your lips had twitched when you finished talking.

You were lying. 

Smiling sheepishly, you quickly avoided the group's glances. "Anyway..." you mumbled, trying to steer the attention away from yourself, "we were introducing ourselves, right?" 

Dae-ho cleared his throat quickly, before nodding in agreement. 

"I'm Oh Young-il," In-ho said, ignoring this new situation for now. "Young-il sounds like 'zero one', and that's my number. Easy to remember," he laughed. 

"What a coincidence," you mumbled, looking at Player 456 who was last to introduce himself. 

"Gi-hun. What's your last name?" In-ho asked, looking at 456 too.

"My name is Seong Gi-hun," he answered, smiling lightly. 

"It's nice to meet you all," you smiled at every single one - including In-ho. He smiled back at you, as he always did, but something was different. 

Had you blown it? Did he see through you after all? 

Before you could try to find an answer, an alarm sounded through the dormitory. One by one, pink soldiers stepped into the large room. 

"Congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game," the square announced. "Here are the results of the second game." 

The light was dimmed as more and more money fell into the see-through piggy bank hanging from the ceiling. People watched in awe, some in horror. 255 players remained. 201 people had died already. Part of you was surprised that you were still there, among the living. Then again, you were not there for the money. You had a mission, even if it was "only" a personal one. But maybe, that difference in motivation was all it took for you to still stand tall, healthy and breathing. 

Or maybe you were just lucky. 

Both reasons were equally fine, and in all honesty - you did not care. You were one of the surviving players, and you would do your best to keep it that way - period.

"It's not even 80 million per person," someone complained, ripping you out of your thoughts. "Only 110 people died? Is that all?"

That comment made you flinch unvoluntarily. Had you heard that correctly? Was it not enough that 110 people lost their lives in the last game? Were people really that cold and nonchalant about it? Or could you simply not understand that because you were not in need of money...?

"Count them again!" Player 100 demanded. You glared at him from across the room; that old man had been grating on your nerves ever since he had first opened his mouth. 

"I almost died twice, and that's all I get?" The man close to your group mumbled, loud enough for you to hear. You looked at him, trying to make sense of the ruckus that was slowly building amongst the players. In the meantime, a storm started brewing within your body. 

Another vote was about to happen. 

The X and O on the ground glowed dangerously. Your mind was reeling, finally understanding that you had to make a choice again - and none of the two seemed right. 

Pressing O would mean to continue these games of life and death. 

Pressing X could mean the end of the games - and the end of your time with In-ho. Who knew if you would ever meet him again? This may have been your only and last chance to-

"Don't worry. I want to stop here too," In-ho said, causing you and Gi-hun to look at him. "I should go and be with my wife at the hospital."

Wife?

Your heart dropped, and you swore you heart it shatter somewhere within you. He was married? That was impossible, you two were not even legally divorced. 

"Yes," Gi-hun answered, patting In-ho's shoulder. "Maybe she remembers you again now." 

Releasing a breath you did not realize you were holding, you tried to calm your heart and nerves. Of course he had no wife in the hospital. You were the one he must have told Gi-hun about, it must have been your story. In-ho's explanation for joining the games. Naturally he could not just waltz in and say he was actually the one organizing this shit show. 

"Are you okay? You look a little pale," In-ho said, nudging your elbow gently. Your eyes snapped over to him as you nodded quickly. "I'm fine. Just a little... exhausted." 

All this lying and acting was almost more draining than these wicked games. In-ho smiled lightly and made his way down the stairs as he was called to make the first vote. As expected, the screen above him counted one X as he pressed the red button. 

One by one, the players were called to the front and placed their votes, the numbers on the screen almost going head to head. Not even 100 players had voted when the arguing began. Despite In-ho's passionate plea, the ones who voted O quickly overtook the room, chanting in unison. 

"One more game! One more game! One more game!"

In the midst of all this, you were watching helplessly, contemplating what to do or what to think. In-ho's words seemed so real, so honest. In the big picture though, they did not make any sense. 

"Player 371." 

You flinched when you heard your number being called. As you made your way to the front, you looked up at the screen. The numbers were almost equal now, X leading by a few votes. 

What should you do? Leave?

You needed answers. 

And maybe it was wrong, but in this moment... you were selfish. You put your need for answers above the lives of 254 other people. 

Loud cheers erupted behind you when you pressed O. 

On the inside though, all you heard was deafening silence. 

[blueraith]

People get way too caught up in "this character is a fighter" trope.

Okay. But why is the character fighting? What cause, person, or thing are they putting their body and life on the line for? It's gonna be something if the character is well written.

Which Vi is.

What happens if they lose that something they've been fighting for over and over and over again? When no matter what they seem to do, their efforts to fight back always end in failure?

Particularly in a story with a theme about the cycle of violence and how it only creates more? When her literal father/narrative mentor figure physically grasps her fist, shakes it and tells her they're only going to cause her more problems?

What do you think the story is trying to say here and throughout the work? It happens early enough to not only be foreshadowing, but a thesis statement for Vi's character.

A thesis statement isn't always just confined to a work overall, they can be applied to characters too. That entire talk with Vander right after the heist is Vi's.

"If people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish."

"This?" Grasps Vi's fist and gently shakes it* "They’re not gonna solve your problems. Just make more of them."

Those two quotes set Vi up as a character for the entire series. Vi is set on a path in which she must learn how to live for herself and she must learn how to live outside of fighting and violence.

Those are the only two directions Vi's character can possibly grow narratively. If there were other options, Vander's talk with her would have been about whatever the fuck her haters wanted. I don't know, maybe, "Well, Vi, you blew up a building, but those Piltie oppressors deserved it. Keep fighting and free Zaun from tyranny."

Obviously Vander didn't say any of that bullshit. My point is that the narrative never, ever sets Vi up as a freedom fighter doomed to always give her life and body for a revolutionary cause. In fact, it does the exact opposite as seen by the conversation above and the later talk Vander has with her about war on the bridge.

If you did not see a rock bottom moment for Vi followed by a drastic change to her character for S2 coming, I question your ability for literally analysis severely. Because Vi surely does not learn the lessons Vander tried to teach her in S1. She actually only ever fights harder and harder and her situation continously deteriorates. Make more problems.

Vi attacks Sevika > Sevika warns Silco she's back

Vi threatens Silco when he finds her > Silco worsens Jinx's mental state with his own trauma with Vander

Vi challenges Silco's relationship with Jinx to Jinx > Jinx feels she has to choose between them in the most violent way possible due to her own trauma

Vi convinces Jayce to attack Silco's operation directly > Furthers tensions between PnZ that culminate into the memorial attack in S2

This is not to say that Vi is solely responsible for the way these events spiraled out of control, but those are her contributions to the cycle of violence. At no point in this story have her confrontational, aggressive, or violent decisions have made anything better.

It gets worse in S2.

Vi joins Cait's taskforce to kill or capture Jinx > Finds out she can't truly harm her sister but not before Jinx turns their strategy with the Grey into yet another terrorist attack on Piltover. (She also loses Caitlyn to Cait's own zeal for violence during her grief.)

Vi succumbs to pit fighting to try and punch away her pain > Hits her lowest point of all, her fighting is now aimless and entirely self-destructive

It's not until she lowers her fists while fighting Warwick that her outlook changes. She finally learns that to make peace, one has to be willing to finally stop fighting.

She does this again at the commune when she takes the gauntlets off without much fight when requested.

This is the story Arcane was always going to tell with Vi. Her's is an introspective and internalized conflict. It was never with Piltover, never as a revolutionary, but always regarding her place as someone grappling with how to escape the cycle of violence and create a life of peace on her own terms.

She wasn’t forgotten, didn't become spineless, and didn't have "nothing" to do in S2.

I think people simply missed this setup with her character. They wrote their own fanwork in their heads in the three year gap between seasons, and have become upset that the version of Vi in their heads was never the Vi Arcane was actually portraying.

I thought Vi's story was poignant, and it's a shame some viewers out there not only completely missed the mark, they're too set in their ways to actually see Vi from this perspective.

[kaitlyn-chukwu]

Katsuki Bakugo headcanon:

-Bakugo is confident and brash, but when you're alone, he’s much softer.

-His love is demonstrated through acts of care, though he doesn’t always say it outright.

-A typical date might involve him dragging you to a spot he finds interesting—maybe a new training ground or a place where he can show off his skills.

-He tries to act cool, but his cheeks flush when you praise him.

-Despite his tough exterior, Bakugo loves surprising you with small gestures, like buying you your favorite snacks or leaving a note for you in an unexpected place.

-His “romantic” moments are blunt but meaningful: "I don’t need anyone else. You’re the one I want."

-Sometimes, he’ll watch you silently with a small smile when he thinks you’re not looking, but you catch his gaze, and he quickly looks away, embarrassed.

-Bakugo is fiercely protective of you. He might not always show it in the most gentle way, but you’ll never feel unsafe when he’s around.

-Bakugo’s not big on PDA, but when you’re alone, he’ll surprise you with small, unexpected gestures like running his hand through your hair or pulling you close for a brief hug.

-He’s not the type to say “I love you” every day, but he’ll call you something like “damn, you’re pretty cool” or “you're the best damn partner I could ask for” when you least expect it.

-If you’re going through something difficult, Bakugo will show his support in a straightforward, sometimes blunt way, pushing you to overcome challenges with his “stop being weak” attitude, but it’s always coming from a place of care.

-He’s not one to hide it, so when other people flirt with you or give you too much attention, he’ll get irritated and make sure everyone knows you’re his.

-When you accomplish something, Bakugo gets proud—he might not show it immediately, but he’ll make sure others know how impressive you are (especially if it involves him being involved in some way).

-If you’re good at something he’s passionate about (like training or a hobby), expect him to challenge you to a friendly competition, just to prove that he's the best... but secretly, he loves when you beat him because it pushes him to be better.

-Bakugo is fiercely loyal. He’ll always have your back, even if he doesn’t show it with words. He’d go to great lengths to protect you and keep you safe.

-While he’s protective, Bakugo respects your independence. He’s not going to hover over you or control your every move—he trusts you to make your own decisions.

-He’s not the type to plan romantic dinners, but if you’ve had a tough day, he might show up with your favorite food or take you out somewhere to help you unwind.

-Bakugo’s not the most emotionally expressive person, so it can take a while for him to truly open up about his feelings. However, once he does, it’s meaningful and deep.

-Bakugo loves to tease you, but it's all in good fun. Sometimes his teasing can get a little intense, but if you ever tell him it’s too much, he’ll tone it down (even if he acts annoyed about it).

-He gets irritated if anyone tries to steal your attention away from him for too long. Quality time is important, so if you’re busy, he’ll make sure you find a way to spend time with him soon.

-When it’s just the two of you, he’ll occasionally let his guard down and show a side of him that’s softer, often without even realizing it. He trusts you enough to do so.

[gs29]

The Family Meeting

Squid Game Master list

The apartment was quiet as Gong Yoo paced in front of the crib, looking down at the baby in his arms. His son, only a few months old, had just fallen asleep after his usual evening feed. Gong Yoo was still in awe of how quickly time had passed since the day his life changed forever.

His wife, you, stood beside him, gently running your fingers through his hair as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Are you ready for this?”

Gong Yoo exhaled slowly, a small, somewhat nervous smile tugging at his lips. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, glancing at the sleeping baby, then at you. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way things change… I never thought we’d be here, bringing him to meet him.”

You nodded in understanding, your hand resting on his arm. "I know. It’s been a long road, and the path’s not always been clear. But… In-ho has always been a part of our lives, in one way or another. It feels like it’s time.”

Gong Yoo looked at you, his gaze soft but filled with a quiet intensity. “I just want to make sure our son grows up in a safe world. A world where he can have a better future… without all the shadows that came before.”

You smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “And he will. We’ll make sure of it.”

After a moment of shared silence, Gong Yoo adjusted his hold on the baby, carefully picking him up again. The tiny bundle in his arms felt so fragile, but so full of promise. Today was important. Today, they would meet someone who had been integral to the past—someone who, in his own way, had helped shape the future Gong Yoo was working hard to build. The Frontman.

The drive was silent, both of you lost in thought, the baby nestled between you two, content and unaware of what was about to happen. Gong Yoo’s mind raced with memories—of the struggles, the difficult decisions, and the man who had once stood as an enigmatic figure in his life. He’d always known there was a deeper connection to In-ho than either of them fully realized at the time. But now, as a father, Gong Yoo’s priorities had shifted.

When they arrived at the compound, the place felt as imposing as ever. The gray stone walls loomed above them, casting long shadows that stretched across the yard. Gong Yoo paused for a moment as he looked at the familiar architecture, the memories of what had transpired here haunting him for just a beat longer than he’d like.

You squeezed his hand as the two of you approached the heavy door, a reminder that things had changed. “He’s different now. I know it’s not easy, but he’s still a part of your life… and ours. It’s time we brought our family together.”

Gong Yoo gave you a small smile, his expression softening. “I know. I just… never thought I’d be introducing our son to him.”

The door opened slowly, revealing a figure standing in the dim light. In-ho. The Frontman. He stood there with his usual calm demeanor, the kind of presence that made you feel like time itself had stopped. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet respect in his gaze as it shifted from you to Gong Yoo.

"You’ve arrived," In-ho said, his voice as measured and controlled as always, but this time there was an unspoken understanding between the three of them.

Gong Yoo stepped forward, the baby still resting in his arms, his hands gently cradling him as if the weight of the world rested there. “We’ve been meaning to bring him here… introduce him to you,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a hint of something softer underneath. “This is Joon.”

In-ho’s eyes flickered to the baby, his gaze softening for a brief moment before he approached, his steps deliberate but slow. “Joon,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his tongue. “He is… small, yet so much potential.”

Gong Yoo chuckled softly, the warmth of the moment reaching his heart. "He's just starting out. But already, he's brought so much joy."

In-ho took another step closer, pausing when he was just a few feet away from the family. He looked down at the baby with something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. It was a silence full of meaning, full of unspoken history, but also full of promise.

"You’ve come far, Gong Yoo," In-ho said, his voice low and almost soft. "I never imagined the day would come when I’d see you here, a father… bringing your son to me."

Gong Yoo met his gaze, the weight of those words settling deep in his chest. "We all change, In-ho. I’m not the same man I was."

In-ho nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile pulling at his lips. "I can see that."

The baby stirred in Gong Yoo’s arms, letting out a tiny sigh. Gong Yoo adjusted him, his gaze returning to In-ho. "I know things have been complicated between us, but now… it’s just about family."

In-ho looked at the baby again, his expression momentarily softening, a rare flicker of emotion breaking through his usually stoic mask. "Family," he repeated. "A concept I never quite understood until now."

Gong Yoo glanced at you, a soft, contented smile spreading across his face. “We all have our own path. But Joon… he’ll have a future full of love.”

In-ho took a small step back, regarding the family with an inscrutable look. His next words were quiet, almost a whisper. “He will be strong. You’ll make sure of it.”

Gong Yoo nodded. "We will. We’re going to give him the life he deserves. A life free from shadows.”

For a moment, the three of them stood in quiet understanding. Gong Yoo could feel the weight of the past and the hopeful promise of the future. In-ho’s quiet presence wasn’t intimidating in this moment, but rather a reminder of what had been, and of what could be.

The Frontman gave a slight nod before speaking again. “Take care of him, Gong Yoo. Your son will grow up in a world that’s different from ours… but don’t forget, you’ve made your choices. Those choices will shape him more than anything.”

Gong Yoo’s grip tightened around his son. "I know. And I’ll protect him with everything I have."

In-ho turned his gaze away, looking out at the compound beyond. “Then, I will respect your path. He is your family now.”

Gong Yoo and you both exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment finally starting to settle. Gong Yoo smiled, his shoulders relaxing, a feeling of resolution passing through him. "Thank you, In-ho."

With a final, almost imperceptible nod, In-ho stepped back, disappearing into the shadows of the building.

As you walked back out into the cool night air, Gong Yoo glanced down at Joon, the baby still sleeping soundly. You smiled at him, and Gong Yoo’s gaze softened as he looked up at you.

“We did it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re giving him a different future. A better one.”

You squeezed his hand. “Yes. A future full of love.”

And with that, they walked home together—Gong Yoo, you, and little Joon—no longer bound by the past, but free to create the future, one step at a time.

[earthlybeam]

The reader (you) , with your bratty personality, loved teasing the elves. You always find ways to get their attention at the most inconvenient times, often by reaching out to touch the elf’s sensitive ears. (For the elves, it was more than just a simple touch—such actions were seen as intimate, a signal of courting, and a serious one at that also incredibly sensitive to pain and pleasure. If the reader (you) didn’t get the response you wanted, you’d torment the elf’s ears further, pinching or tugging until their target finally relented. You knew just how to push their buttons—always with a smile and a glint of mischief in their eyes.)

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celeborn version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad was no stranger to the burdens of leadership. As the High King of the Noldor, the weight of the crown often pressed heavily on his shoulders. He was accustomed to being in control, to having his decisions made with unwavering precision, and his commands followed with absolute loyalty. His days were filled with strategy, diplomacy, and endless matters of state, leaving little room for distractions. But you—you, with that mischievous glint in your eye—seemed determined to be the exception. He was used to the quiet hum of his court, the careful, polite whispers of his council members, the solemn discussions that shaped the fate of Middle-earth. He had learned to maintain a stoic calm in the face of countless pressures. But you—you had a way of unraveling his composure, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the heat of your teasing touches.

Today was no different. As he stood on the balcony, gazing out over Lindon, deep in thought about the future of his people, he felt it. The familiar sensation—the lightest brush of fingertips against the edge of his ear. His sensitive elven ears twitched involuntarily, a small gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. The touch was innocent enough, playful even. But he knew what it meant—knew that you had every intention of making a game out of it. Turning his head slowly, Gil-galad’s eyes found you standing just out of reach, feigning innocence. His gaze narrowed, and despite his better judgment, a small, indulgent smile tugged at his lips. “Are you so certain that you want my attention, little one?” His voice was calm, but there was a trace of warning beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help it. There was something so satisfying about making Gil-galad lose that composure of his. For all his wisdom, his age, his power—he was still, in some ways, just like any other Elf, sensitive in ways he didn’t want to admit. And those ears? Oh, you knew exactly what a simple touch could do. You’d watched him closely, noticed how his ear would twitch when you brushed too close. How his expression would falter, just a fraction, when your fingers lingered on that delicate, pointed curve. His stoic façade might fool many, but you had the key to unlocking something deeper, something raw beneath that calm exterior. With a grin that barely restrained your mischievous intent, you took a step closer. He was standing there, too absorbed in his thoughts—so serene, so dignified—and you had no intentions of letting him stay that way. You reached up, pinching one of his ears, the motion quick and sharp, just enough to make his jaw tighten. His immediate reaction was almost imperceptible—a tightening of his lips, the briefest flicker in his eye. But you had felt it. You had seen it. He was trying so hard to remain stoic. “Careful, my King,” you whispered teasingly. “You wouldn’t want to lose that composure, would you?”

The pinch sent a sharp jolt through Gil-galad’s ear, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a slow breath to steady himself. How bold you were. You knew exactly how to push him, to provoke him, and in such a way that he could hardly stop you. The delicate skin of his ear was more sensitive than most would realize—and you knew that. Too well, he thought. “Enough,” he murmured, though his tone carried a softness that betrayed his usual authority. His eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was an edge to his words, a warning that came with the weight of being a king. “You do not want to test my patience, my little flower.” But, of course, you did not relent. You never did. A second later, his ear was subjected to your playful torment once again—a quick pinch, then a teasing brush that made him flinch. His breath hitched before he could fully mask it. It was maddening how you always seemed to find the perfect moment to push him to the edge. He stood still, his hand clenched by his side in an effort to maintain some semblance of control, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

You were relentless, always just out of reach, always knowing how far you could push him before his control slipped away. His gaze flickered to yours—dark eyes filled with a quiet command, though a trace of something else lingered there, something unspoken. “Do not tempt me,” he growled, his voice low and almost dangerous, the edges of his usual calm fraying as his patience began to thin. The flicker of vulnerability in his voice made you smile. It was too tempting. His authority was always present, a constant weight upon his shoulders, but that look—that brief moment where he faltered—it was priceless. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the strength of his restraint warring with the pull of your teasing.

“Oh? Am I tempting you, my King?” you replied with a soft chuckle, stepping closer, just a whisper of space between you. You didn’t touch him, not yet, but you hovered near him, close enough to make him feel your presence, feel the pull of your proximity. His stoic face remained carefully neutral, but you could hear the slight hitch in his breath as you hovered near his ear. You brushed your fingers lightly along the curve of his ear again, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to make him fight to maintain his composure. Gil-galad’s gaze narrowed, his muscles tensing at your every move. His lips pressed together tightly, and you could see the faintest tremor in his jaw. He was trying so hard to remain composed, to hold onto that elusive control, but you could sense the undercurrent of tension in him, the subtle flicker of his resolve weakening with each passing moment. The smallest of movements—a barely noticeable shift in his posture—betrayed the struggle within him.

“Gil-galad,” you murmured, leaning in a little closer, your breath warm against his ear. “I only want to play. A little teasing never hurt anyone, has it?”His heart beat faster, but Gil-galad didn’t let it show. Damn you, he thought, yet he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching in a near-smile. The battle for composure was growing harder by the second. Every time your fingers brushed against his ear, every light touch, it felt like a thousand whispers all at once. He had lived for centuries—he was a king, an ancient elf, and yet you, with your bratty little games, had a way of unraveling him that no foe ever could. His patience, once as steady as the mountains, was eroding. Slipping away like the sands of time. “Enough,” he repeated, his voice still steady but laced with something far less certain. A soft tremor was hidden beneath the calm façade as his hand reached up, almost involuntarily, brushing the side of his ear where your fingers had just been. The gesture betrayed the subtle storm brewing within him. His body was betraying him, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit. “You test me, little one,” he said, his words thick with something deeper now—something affectionate, despite the strained composure he was desperately trying to cling to.

His eyes found yours, dark and smoldering, eyes that burned with both authority and something much more dangerous—an edge of challenge, of desire, that he hadn’t shown you before. The king was gone for a moment, replaced by something far more personal, far more exposed. And before you could react, his hand moved again, reaching out to cup your chin gently, lifting your face so your eyes could meet his, locking with yours in a way that sent a surge of heat through your body. “If this is how you wish to earn my attention, then so be it,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a playful thread woven into the depth of his words. “But you must know, I am no stranger to games of my own. And I always play to win.”

You could feel it then—the challenge. You’d pushed him, unraveling his composed façade, and now he had you right where he wanted you. That calm, regal authority was still there, but beneath it, something new simmered—something that you hadn’t seen before. The eyes that once seemed so distant, so distant and cold, were now filled with a raw intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His words, laced with such quiet power, rang in your ears, and you realized with a thrill that the game had changed. Now, you were both players in this dance of seduction and challenge. You met his gaze, daring and unyielding, but there was a hint of uncertainty in you, a slight tremor in your chest that you would not allow him to see. You knew he had been affected, perhaps more than he cared to admit, and that gave you all the power you needed. The satisfaction of knowing you had drawn him in—drawn him to this point—was worth everything.

“Then play, my King,” you whispered, your voice low, with a daring smile tugging at the corners of your lips, letting him decide how the game would unfold from here. You could feel the heat between you, the challenge that stretched like a taut wire between you both, just waiting for one of you to pull. You had drawn him into this dance, and now the steps were his to lead. But deep down, neither of you needed to say it aloud—this was far from over. Neither of you had the intention of stopping. The game had only just begun. Gil-galad’s breath caught at your words. There it was, the challenge that he had been holding back, the undeniable invitation that left him both exhilarated and dangerously intrigued. You had called his bluff, and now there was nothing left to do but follow through with the game. The fire in his chest was growing, stoking his desire to see just how far you would push him—and how much of him you could make him lose control of.

His eyes never left yours as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking in a way that felt inevitable. His body was taut, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and the faintest flicker of something darker lingered in his expression—something raw, something almost primal. “You will learn, little one,” he murmured, his voice now thick with promise. He moved as if the world itself had slowed, every step measured and deliberate. His hand brushed lightly against your cheek before his fingers slid down, grazing the curve of your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. His touch was gentle—deceptively so—but the heat in his gaze was undeniable, a flame that danced behind his cool composure. The moment stretched, taut like a drawn bow, and he leaned in close, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Do you know what you’ve done?” His words were low, hushed, barely a breath against your skin, but they held weight—he was no longer the High King of Lindon, the untouchable ruler. Now, he was something more dangerous, more tangled in this game than you could have imagined. You had pulled him in, and now, in the space between desire and restraint, he wasn’t certain who was winning. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, despite the intensity of the moment. He couldn’t help but admire your audacity, how you still stood your ground even as the storm between you both built. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, his grip not harsh, but enough to keep you where he wanted you. Close. “You’ve awakened something, and now I intend to see it through.”

His lips, hovering just above your own, were a breath away, but he didn’t kiss you. No, he was letting the anticipation stretch, letting the power shift in his favor. His other hand brushed against your ear once more, this time with far more intention, as if to remind you of just how sensitive he was—of just how far he would let you push before he decided to take control. Your teasing had worked, but now, the stakes had changed. There was no going back from this. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned, his lips curling into a smile that was as much a challenge as it was a promise. “But I warn you, I don’t lose.” It was a statement, but it held something deeper. Something intimate, something that carried the weight of more than just words. Gil-galad leaned back slightly, his hand still resting on your neck, his thumb brushing gently over the curve of your skin. The control was back in his hands, but the tension between you still crackled like an electric charge, both of you knowing that the game was far from finished. The power was shifting, but neither of you was ready to give up just yet. His gaze swept over your features once more, his smile still lingering. “You’ve played your hand, little one,” he said softly. “Now, let’s see how you respond when the game shifts in my favor.” And with that, he moved, a step closer, as if to close the distance between your lips with a kiss that was still just out of reach.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil sat at his desk, the dim light of his study flickering softly against the walls, casting long shadows. His fingers moved across ancient maps and scrolls, the weight of centuries of leadership heavy in his thoughts. Mirkwood was calm—too calm. His mind was always occupied with the threats that loomed at the edges of his kingdom, but tonight, he was lost in the minutiae of strategy and diplomacy. The faintest sound of light footfalls reached his ears, but he didn’t lift his gaze from the scroll in front of him. He had learned over the years that Mirkwood was full of intrusions, both from the forest and from within his own halls. Still, something in the air felt different.

You crept into his study with the same mischievous glint in your eyes that had earned you both admiration and frustration from the Elven king. Thranduil hadn’t noticed you approach at first, so focused was he on his work, but that only gave you the advantage. You hovered behind his chair for a moment, taking in the sight of the king as he immersed himself in his responsibilities. His hair, long and flowing like silver threads of moonlight, framed his strong features, his brow furrowed with concentration. The sharpness of his gaze, even when unfocused, was enough to make anyone stand at attention—but you were not just anyone. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his shoulders slightly tensed whenever you were near. And you had a particular fondness for that subtle vulnerability, for the way he resisted, and yet seemed to appreciate your antics.

Reaching forward slowly, your fingers brushed against the tips of his elven ears, and you felt him freeze immediately. The slight tremor of his body was all the confirmation you needed to know that, yes, the rumors were true. The sensitivity of an elf’s ears was nothing to be trifled with. At first, you didn’t press it. You simply caressed the delicate points of his ears with a feather-light touch, the softness of his skin beneath your fingers sending a shiver down your spine. His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his voice remained steady as he continued working, his posture betraying his growing awareness of your presence. “Did you need something?” Thranduil’s voice was quiet, but there was an underlying strain in it, as though he were trying to maintain his composure despite your proximity.

You smiled, a devious twinkle in your eye as you leaned in just a little closer. “Oh, nothing in particular,” you said softly, your breath barely a whisper against his ear. “I was just thinking… how long will it take before you give me your full attention?” You pinched his ear gently, just enough to make the skin flush beneath your fingers. Thranduil’s body tensed almost imperceptibly, and you could see the corner of his lip twitch in irritation. He slowly lowered the scroll in his hand, his gaze sharpening with a mix of wariness and amusement as he looked up at you, finally turning his head. “You have an insufferable way of getting what you want, don’t you?”

The words were tinged with both exasperation and something else—perhaps a touch of fascination, though he would never admit it. You loved how he tried to stay composed, how he fought against your little games, but you knew him well enough by now. Thranduil might be a king, but he was also an elf, and underneath that regal facade, he was not immune to temptation. You didn’t wait for a response, instead choosing to torment him further. You pinched his ear again, this time a little firmer, twisting it with a deliberate movement. His breath faltered, and his hand clenched the arm of his chair. “You’re being quite cruel,” he muttered, but there was a note of frustration creeping into his voice. He didn’t move to stop you, though. Instead, his sharp eyes narrowed as he studied you—waiting, perhaps hoping that you’d stop, but knowing, too, that you wouldn’t.

“Am I?” you teased, pressing your thumb to the edge of his ear and giving it another, more insistent pinch. “You seem to like it, though.” Your fingers danced along the sensitive tip, and you felt him shift beneath your touch, his chest rising and falling slightly faster. Thranduil’s eyes flickered to your hand, and his lip curled ever so slightly. The King of Mirkwood had his pride, and even in this vulnerable moment, he wasn’t one to beg or show weakness. But you could tell his patience was fraying. His grip on the chair tightened, and there was a quiet warning in his voice as he spoke again. “I am not one to be trifled with, little one.” The words were clipped, but there was an undertone of something deeper. Desire, perhaps. Or simply the need to regain control. You leaned in close again, the tip of your nose brushing against the side of his face as you whispered, “We’ll see about that.”

Thranduil’s breath caught in his throat as the sharp, unexpected pinch of his ear jolted him from his thoughts. His eyes, usually steady and calculating, flickered with a moment of vulnerability, and he couldn’t suppress the soft, involuntary hiss that escaped his lips. He had never quite expected this from you—the delicate balance of teasing and torment. You had crossed a line now, and the energy between you crackled with a dangerous tension. His pride, unshakable and centuries-old, flared, and yet, a deeper part of him, something raw and instinctive, stirred to life. It wasn’t pain he felt—not exactly. The sensation was sharp, yes, but something else lingered too: the unsettling pulse of his own body responding to your touch. The way his ears burned under your fingertips, how the very edge of the discomfort had a strange, intoxicating edge to it, unlike anything he had ever allowed to happen. And now, here you were, smirking at him with that unmistakable gleam in your eyes, knowing exactly what you had done.

“You,” he growled, his voice dropping lower, filled with a dangerous calm, a blend of amusement and something darker. “You will regret this, little one.” He didn’t need to see you to know that you were savoring this moment. You always seemed to delight in seeing him on the edge of something he couldn’t quite control. You were like that—a force of nature, wild and mischievous, playing with him like a cat with a mouse. But Thranduil, the King of Mirkwood, never let a game slip from his grasp, and he wasn’t going to start now. Your smirk widened just a fraction, the gleam in your eyes only deepening as you leaned back slightly to admire your work. You had gotten under his skin. You had made him feel something he wasn’t used to feeling, and for a brief moment, it unsettled him. He had never thought his weakness—his ear, his damnable sensitivity—would be exposed like this, let alone by someone who took such delight in tormenting it.

Your gaze didn’t waver from his, the challenge clear in your posture. The tension built as Thranduil’s lips parted, eyes flashing dangerously. This wasn’t a moment of weakness. It wasn’t pain that gripped him, but something else, something far more complicated. His hand rose, almost too quickly, his fingers latching onto your wrist with an unexpected force. He didn’t yank you, but there was no denying the strength in his grip, the way it seemed to hold you in place as his presence towered over you. He could have simply taken your hand away, could have made this interaction nothing more than a swift rebuke, but no—Thranduil wasn’t one to be disrespected without consequence, especially when it came to something as intimate as his ear.

“You think you can play with me like this, little one?” His voice was a low murmur, but it carried a power that made your heart beat a little faster. “Let us see how well you handle my attention.” The words were carefully chosen, as if to remind you that this wasn’t a simple game. He was the king, the one who commanded Mirkwood, who had spent centuries as both a ruler and a protector of his people. But in that moment, you weren’t thinking of any of that. You were thinking of how the game had shifted. How the roles had reversed, and now, Thranduil was the one who had been provoked. You could see it in the way his lips curved slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t just annoyance that flickered in his eyes—it was interest. A challenge.

You didn’t flinch. In fact, your lips curled into a slight smirk of your own as you met his gaze, unflinching and confident, like you were in control of the situation. You had provoked him, and you knew he was no longer the one unaffected. You had caught his attention, and that was a dangerous thing for both of you. His fingers remained tightly wound around your wrist, but his touch was controlled, deliberate, as if marking his territory, asserting his dominance in this little game. And yet, there was a flicker of something else in his expression—a deeper curiosity, even a hunger, that you had never seen in him before. It wasn’t just about punishment anymore. No, this was more complicated. He was intrigued by you. You had made him feel something raw, something old and long buried, and now, you had his full attention. You swallowed, but still, you didn’t break eye contact. The challenge had been issued. It was no longer just about the playful teasing or your little games. Thranduil’s attention was now focused entirely on you, and you had the feeling this would no longer be as easy as you expected. The game had begun, but now, it was a game of give and take. And you? You were ready for whatever came next.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The tranquil halls of Rivendell hummed with the gentle whispers of flowing water and rustling leaves, a sanctuary of peace and beauty. Yet, in one particular study, serenity was far from the prevailing mood. There, at his grand oak desk, Lord Elrond sat, his elegant quill scratching steadily over a parchment filled with intricate Elven script. The lord of Imladris was the picture of focus, his noble features serene as the golden light of the afternoon filtered through the arched windows. Unfortunately for him, you were also in the room. You were standing not far behind his chair, arms crossed, lips twisted in a playful pout. The stillness of the room was only broken by the soft rustling of parchment as Elrond worked, lost in whatever task had so firmly claimed his attention. The sight of his perfect composure, the calm yet powerful figure of the lord, only fueled your impatience. He had been like this for hours, completely immersed in his work—totally ignoring you.

With a dramatic sigh, you leaned slightly forward, careful not to disturb his quiet routine too much. “Elrond,” you began, dragging his name in a playful sing-song that was sure to catch his attention. You could see his shoulders tense just slightly in acknowledgment. “How long must you sit there ignoring me? You’ve been staring at those scrolls for hours. Do you even know I’m here?” Elrond’s hand paused for a brief moment, his quill hovering just above the parchment. His focus shifted, but only just. Without looking up from the words he was writing, he responded, his voice calm, but laced with that familiar, measured elegance. “I am well aware of your presence, Mellon nín. However, this task demands my attention.” You scoffed lightly, knowing full well that his response was nothing more than an attempt at deflection. His voice was smooth, practiced, but you could feel the tiniest hint of his own frustration under the surface. “More than I do?” you teased, arching an eyebrow, stepping a little closer, your gaze fixated on him with an impish glint. He didn’t look up, but there was the faintest shift in his posture, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. “Patience is a virtue, my dear,” he replied, a quiet warmth in his voice. You pursed your lips and planted your hands on your hips. “Patience is overrated.” The words slipped out with a confident, almost bratty edge, an open challenge. But as you spoke, your eyes wandered. You watched him, the lord of Rivendell, so poised and composed. And then, there it was—the delicate curve of his ear, just peeking through the dark strands of his silken hair.

It was a sight that you had grown to recognize. His ears, those slender points, were not just a distinguishing feature of his race but something deeply personal. To touch them, especially the sensitive tips, was an intimate gesture for an elf. So many unspoken things were tied to that one action, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you could push him before his patience gave way. The mischievous spark in your eyes grew as the idea took root. If you won’t give me attention willingly, I’ll just have to take it. Your steps were light, but deliberate as you moved behind his chair. His attention was still on the parchment, but you knew—he knows. His incredible hearing, that gift of Elven sensitivity, had undoubtedly already sensed your movement, the slight shift of your presence. Leaning in just a fraction closer, you reached forward, your fingers brushing against the fine, soft strands of his hair. Elrond did not stir, but you could see his ear twitch slightly, ever so subtly. You smiled inwardly. With a barely audible breath, you pinched the very tip of his ear. Elrond’s response was immediate. His quill stopped mid-motion, hovering above the parchment, and his hand froze. His body stilled for a heartbeat, a slight tremor passing through him. The air between you thickened, and you could feel the weight of his attention slowly shifting from his work to you. His sharp, clear eyes widened in surprise for the briefest of moments, before narrowing with a subtle warning. A soft, almost imperceptible intake of breath left his lips as his gaze flickered to you over his shoulder, catching the playful glint in your eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. You could sense him holding his breath, weighing his options. He was torn between annoyance and amusement—torn between the responsibility he bore as the Lord of Rivendell and his inability to deny his body’s reaction to your touch. Elven ears were a sensitive thing—sensitive to both pleasure and pain—and you had expertly walked the fine line between them. His tone, when it came, was low but edged with a warning. “(Y/N), do you truly wish to test me today?” His voice was calm, measured, but there was a flicker of something deeper in the depths of his gaze, something that made your heart beat a little faster.

Feigning innocence, you took a small step back, holding your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. “Test you? I’d never,” you replied, your voice dripping with mock sweetness, a layer of innocence laid over your mischievous grin. But your eyes—your eyes betrayed you. The glint in them, the playfulness in the curve of your lips, revealed everything that needed no words. Elrond’s gaze softened, but only briefly. There was a softness in his eyes that spoke of a long history of affection, but beneath that, there was something more—a challenge in his stance, a resolve that only you could bring to the surface. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the corners of his mouth curving up just enough to betray his amusement, though the challenge in his eyes remained unyielding. “You are truly a handful, Mellon nín,” he murmured, and there was something almost affectionate in the way he said it. But the look he gave you was a clear warning. You knew this game wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

Before Elrond could return to his work, you reached out again, this time brushing your fingers along the smooth curve of his ear. The response was immediate—his body stiffened, his back straightened with military precision, and his lips pressed into a thin, controlled line. His elegant features, usually so composed, wavered just for a moment, and the tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, a silent admission of how deeply your touch affected him. His sharp eyes darted to you, and for a brief second, you thought you saw a flicker of vulnerability there—something that made the ever-dignified lord seem a touch more… mortal. He caught his breath, as if unsure whether to scold you or indulge your playful torment. “(Y/N),” he said, his voice deeper now, laced with an undeniable warning. “You know how delicate a matter this is. Touching an elf’s ears…” His words trailed off, the weight of his knowledge pressing down. “Oh, I know,” you interrupted, not giving him a chance to finish. A mischievous grin spread across your lips as you leaned in closer. “That’s exactly why it’s so much fun,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper, but laced with just enough intent to make the air between you thick with playful tension.

Elrond’s gaze sharpened, his lips curving into a subtle frown, but there was a spark in his eyes that betrayed a hint of curiosity. “Fun, you say?” His voice held the faintest note of disbelief. “Mm-hmm.” You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re so serious all the time, Elrond. I think you need someone to remind you how to have a little fun now and then.” You saw the slight tension in his jaw as he exhaled softly, resigning himself to the fact that you would not be easily deterred. He set his quill down with exaggerated care, each movement deliberate, as though the moment required his utmost attention. Then, turning in his chair to face you fully, he clasped his hands together, folding them on his lap, his posture one of restrained patience. “And you believe this is the way to achieve that?” he asked, his tone gentle but pointed. You tilted your head, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Well,” you said, drawing out the word, “you leave me no choice. If you won’t look away from your work, I have to get your attention somehow.” Elrond’s lips twitched ever so slightly, and though his gaze remained sharp, there was something in his eyes—something warmer, perhaps even fond—that softened the edges of his irritation. “You are incorrigible,” he muttered with a quiet chuckle, the words losing their sting when paired with the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe,” you said with a casual shrug, grinning unabashedly. “But you love it.” Before he could offer a retort, you moved again, quicker this time, your fingers catching the soft curve of his ear once more. The moment you made contact, you saw his entire body react—his posture faltered, and his breath hitched sharply, his chest rising and falling just a little faster. His cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, more pronounced now, as though the warmth from your touch had burned straight through his usually composed exterior. With a swift, decisive motion, Elrond reached up to capture your hand in his, his grip firm but not harsh. “That is quite enough,” he said, his voice low and rich, a commanding undertone settling in that was impossible to ignore. There was a promise in his words—something that hinted at retribution, and yet, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he enjoyed this little game. “Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning in close enough to see the faintest, barely-contained smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Admit it—you like it when I keep you on your toes.” Elrond’s grey eyes, which usually carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, softened just a fraction, and for a brief moment, he looked younger—almost playful. The flicker of something mischievous sparked in his gaze, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a tender patience. “What I like,” he said softly, his voice taking on a more indulgent tone, though it still held the weight of that quiet exasperation, “is a challenge. And you, Mellon nín, are most certainly that.”

Triumph surged in your chest at his words, and you flashed him a cocky grin. “So I win?” Elrond’s lips curved upward in the barest of smiles, and his gaze held a knowing gleam, one that suggested you may have won this small victory, but the war was far from over. “Hardly,” he said, his tone a blend of fondness and mild reproach. Before you could process his words, Elrond stood up from his chair with fluid grace, his tall, elegant frame towering over you. You didn’t have a chance to react before he leaned down, his face just inches from yours. The sheer closeness of him—the warmth of his breath mingling with yours—was enough to send your pulse racing. His expression was calm, but his eyes glinted with something far more dangerous, something playful. “You forget, my dear,” he said softly, his voice like velvet as it wrapped around you. “An elf always has the upper hand.” The words held a knowing finality, a promise that you weren’t as in control as you thought. And before you could respond, Elrond’s hand moved, swift as a shadow, brushing the side of your neck with a feather-light touch—deliberately echoing the torment you had visited on his ear. The sensation was electric, the light touch sending a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but gasp at the unexpected shock of it.

Elrond’s smile deepened as he straightened, leaving you breathless and momentarily off balance. “You see?” he said, his voice victorious. “Two can play at this game.” You glared at him, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. He had turned the tables, and he knew it. His composure was impeccable once again, his features settling back into the calm, regal manner of the Lord of Rivendell. But you saw the smirk on his face, the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. “Well played,” you admitted grudgingly, your voice a mix of admiration and frustration. “Indeed,” he replied, his voice rich with approval, as he resumed his seat at the desk. He paused for a moment, allowing the tension between you to linger before he spoke again, his tone no less authoritative. “Now, if you are quite finished with your antics, perhaps I can return to my work?” You crossed your arms, huffing in mock indignation. Yet, the glimmer of affection in his eyes softened the blow of his words. Despite everything, despite his firm stance, you could see how much he cared for you in the small, fleeting expressions that he couldn’t quite mask. You’d let him win this round—but only because you were already planning your next move. And this game, you knew, was far from over.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

The golden light of Lothlórien filtered softly through the canopy above, dappling Celeborn’s study with patches of warm sunlight. You sat across the room, your chin propped up on your hand as you watched him work. His posture was impeccable as always, back straight, shoulders relaxed, every movement precise as he dipped his quill into the inkpot and scrawled elegant script onto the parchment. His silver hair shimmered like liquid starlight, cascading over his shoulders in waves. At first, the sight was mesmerizing—a portrait of elven grace and focus. But the novelty wore off quickly. The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional scratch of the quill or the soft rustle of paper. You sighed dramatically, shifting in your seat to make your presence known, but Celeborn remained unbothered, his eyes fixed on his work. The boredom began to creep in, your fingers drumming absently on the armrest of your chair. You studied him closely, your gaze wandering over the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the slight furrow of his brow as he concentrated. Then your eyes settled on his ears—delicate, pointed, and oh-so-tempting.

You knew enough of elven customs to understand the significance of touching them. Their sensitivity was almost legendary, and to an elf, their ears were as intimate as any touch to the heart. It was precisely why you couldn’t resist. The thought of flustering Celeborn—who was always so composed and regal—sent a mischievous thrill through you. Your lips curled into a sly smile as you shifted in your seat, leaning forward slightly. He didn’t notice. The perfect target. The quill moved steadily in his hand, and his focus remained entirely on the parchment in front of him. Oh, you’d fix that. Your hand darted out, your fingers aiming straight for the pointed tip of his ear, unable to resist the challenge of breaking through that impeccable calm. The smirk widened on your face as you anticipated his reaction, and the game began.

The tranquil stillness of Lothlórien was interrupted not by the sound of an intruding force, nor the rustling of the leaves underfoot, but by a soft, unexpected pinch on Celeborn’s ear. The Sindarin lord paused mid-sentence, his voice faltering as he attempted to resume the careful dictation of a letter to one of his allies. His quill hovered over the parchment, ink threatening to drip onto the pristine surface. A faint pink blush dusted his cheeks, but his expression betrayed nothing more than mild annoyance. Slowly, Celeborn turned his head, his silver hair brushing over his shoulders like flowing water, only to find you perched nearby, a smirk playing across your lips. “Must you?” he asked, his voice even but carrying an undertone of exasperation. “I must,” you replied, your fingers reaching out to tweak the delicate tip of his ear again, your grin widening when he flinched. “You’ve been sitting there for hours, Celeborn. Scribbling letters. Talking to yourself. Boring. I’m rescuing you.”

Celeborn let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that only someone with millennia of patience could muster. “These letters are of grave importance,” he reminded you, shifting slightly to move his ear out of your reach. His tone was measured and calm, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest flicker of amusement. “And I am not so easily distracted.” You raised a brow, your bratty demeanor gleaming with mischief. “Oh, I disagree. I think you’re very easily distracted,” you said, leaning closer until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Especially when it comes to these.” Your fingers danced toward his ear again, and this time, you lightly traced the pointed tip. Celeborn froze, his body going rigid, the quill slipping from his grasp to land unceremoniously on the desk. His breath hitched, the tiniest sound escaping his lips—a mixture of surprise and irritation, though there was no disguising the faint shiver that coursed through him.

“Stop that,” he said, his voice slightly strained. His usual unflappable composure was beginning to crack, and the sight of it only encouraged you further. “Stop what?” you asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. Your fingers returned, pinching the soft cartilage gently before trailing downward. “This? Or this?” Celeborn’s hand shot up to catch yours, his grip firm but not forceful. His cool gray eyes locked onto yours, the faintest spark of warning in their depths. “You know precisely what you are doing,” he said, his tone low but steady. “And you know precisely what I want,” you countered, not pulling away from his grasp. You leaned in, close enough that your breath tickled his cheek. “A little attention. That’s all. Is it so much to ask?”

“You have my attention,” Celeborn replied, though his voice betrayed just how much effort it took to maintain his calm. “And I would appreciate it if you did not assault my ears in the process.” “Assault?” you repeated with mock outrage, laughing softly. “I think you like it. Your ears don’t lie, Celeborn—they’re turning red.” He let out a slow breath, his grip on your hand loosening just slightly. “My kins ears are sensitive,” he said, his voice dropping to a quieter tone, as if that fact was not already glaringly obvious. “And you are testing my patience.”

“Patience is overrated,” you said breezily, your free hand darting forward to trace the outer curve of his other ear. His reaction was immediate—his shoulders stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Enough,” he said, and this time there was a distinct note of command in his voice. His hand released yours as he turned in his chair to face you fully, his silver hair cascading over his shoulders. Though his expression remained composed, there was a faint intensity in his gaze now, a hint of something sharper beneath his calm exterior. But you were not deterred. If anything, his reaction only fueled your mischief. “Make me stop,” you teased, leaning back just slightly, though your fingers still hovered near his ear, ready to strike again at a moment’s notice.

Celeborn studied you for a long moment, his keen eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his options. Then, in a move so swift it caught you off guard, he reached out and caught both your wrists in his hands. His grip was gentle but firm, unyielding as he pulled you closer until there was barely any space between you. “You are relentless,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a quiet authority that made your heart skip a beat. “But if you wish for my attention so badly, you need only ask for it. There is no need for this… torment.” Your smirk faltered for a moment, his closeness and the intensity of his gaze sending a thrill down your spine. But you quickly recovered, leaning in with a playful glint in your eye. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Celeborn sighed again, though this time there was a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You are incorrigible,” he said, releasing your wrists but not leaning back. Instead, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering for just a moment. “Perhaps,” you admitted, your tone softening just slightly. “But you love it.” Celeborn’s gaze softened, his serene composure returning as he regarded you with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “I have endured much in my long years,” he said, a faint smile finally breaking through. “But you, I think, will be the greatest test of my patience yet.” “Good,” you said, your grin returning as you leaned back, victorious. “I’d hate to be boring.” As Celeborn returned to his letters, you couldn’t help but notice the faintest twitch of his ears as he tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore the way your eyes lingered on him. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as unflappable as he liked to pretend.

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

Request: can I get a fight between Dean and sister?

A/N: Hope this is what you were looking for! Requests are always open:))

The silence in the bunker was thick, suffocating. The low hum of the lights seemed to echo in the space as you stood at the kitchen counter, hands trembling slightly as you fought the urge to scream. You’d been stuck in here for days, confined within these walls, and every second of it felt like an eternity.

Dean was hovering again. He’d been doing it since Crowley resurfaced. Every time you moved, he was right there, watching you, making sure you didn’t wander off. He hadn’t let you go anywhere alone. And it was driving you insane.

You weren’t a child anymore. You knew what was at stake. You were old enough to understand the dangers, old enough to make your own decisions. But no matter how many times you told him that, Dean just wouldn’t listen.

Tonight was no different. You had had enough.

You turned, eyes locked on Dean as he stood by the door, arms crossed, his jaw set in that familiar, protective way. “I’m going for a walk,” you said, your voice tight with frustration.

Dean didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “No, you’re not.”

You felt your heart rate quicken, the anger flaring up. "What? Why? Dean, I’ve been stuck in here for days. I’m just going for a walk. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he snapped, his voice rising with tension. “Not with Crowley out there, kid. Not with the him sniffing around.”

“I’m not a kid anymore!” you shouted, the words burning in your throat. “You don’t get to keep treating me like one, Dean!”

Dean’s face hardened, his voice cutting through the space like a blade. “You’re 17. You’re still a kid. That means you’re my responsibility. You don’t get to make decisions like you know what’s out there. You don’t get to walk off into that mess alone. I’m not letting you.”

Your chest tightened, the frustration boiling over. “I’m not a kid, Dean! And you’re not Dad!” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, raw and full of all the resentment you’d been holding back.

Dean froze, his expression going cold for a split second. But then his eyes flashed with something darker, something more desperate. He stepped toward you, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Yeah, well,” he ground out, his voice rough, almost shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “Dad’s not here, is he? Huh? He’s not here to look after you. He’s not here to keep you safe. I am. And until I know you’re safe, you’re not going anywhere alone. Not with that son of a bitch out there.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your throat tightened, the breath getting caught behind the weight of what he’d said. For a moment, neither of you moved. The anger lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, but beneath it, there was something else—something softer, more fragile.

Dean’s jaw clenched, and he took another step toward you, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “You think I want to be doing this? You think I like treating you like you’re some little girl I have to watch over? Hell no. I know you’re tough, I know you’re strong, I know you can handle yourself. But you’re my responsibility, kid. You’re all I’ve got left. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you, not while I’m breathing.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning, heart hammering in your chest. You wanted to argue, to scream that you didn’t need him to control you. But you couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he was right.

Dean wasn’t just trying to control you. He was terrified. Terrified of losing you. Terrified of Crowley getting his hands on you.

“I get it,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I get why you’re doing it, Dean. But, I can’t keep living like this, always under your thumb, like I’m some helpless little thing. I need to breathe. I need to be me.”

Dean’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see the conflict swirling inside of him. He was struggling too—trying to balance that protective instinct with the realization that you weren’t a child anymore. That you needed space.

But the fear in his eyes was still there, burning. “I’m not trying to control you, kid,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to keep you alive. I don’t know how to keep you safe when I don’t know where the hell Crowley is or what he’s planning. I’m not losing you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with all the weight of the years you’d spent together. You could feel the love, the desperation, the sheer panic that came with the thought of losing someone you cared about. But at the same time, you wanted to be your own person. You wanted to make your own choices, not be treated like a child, even if it came from a place of love.

“I’m not gonna let you walk out there and get yourself caught up in something you don’t understand,” Dean continued, his voice lower now, pleading. “I can’t.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice hit you harder than anything else. You knew he was scared. You knew he was just trying to protect you. He was trying to keep you alive. Trying to keep you from walking into something that could tear you apart—something that could tear him apart, too.

Dean’s voice was low, almost apologetic now, as he stepped back and placed his hands on his hips. “You know I’m not doing this to control you, right? I’m doing this because I don’t want to lose you. You’re all I’ve got left, kid.”

The words hit you harder than anything else. Your anger faded into something softer, something more raw. You felt your own breath catch in your chest as you took a step closer to him.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know, Dean. I get it. I do.”

Dean gave you a long, searching look before he nodded, his jaw tight. “We’ll get through this, okay? Together. You’re not walking out there alone with Crowley still lurking around. Not until it’s safe.”

You looked him in the eyes, and for the first time in a long time, you let the fear in his gaze sink in. You understood why he was doing it and you were okay with the compromise.

“Fine,” you said quietly, looking down at the floor. “But only until it’s safe.”

Dean finally let out a sigh of relief and, for a brief moment, he reached out to give your shoulder a firm but gentle squeeze. “Thanks for understanding, kid. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

You didn’t say anything back, you just nodded and leaned into his chest. You let the moment pass, feeling the weight of it hang between you, and realizing that he wasn’t hovering out of control. He was doing it because he loved you. Because you were his responsibility, and as much as you wanted to fight it, that meant everything.

[daydreamabout]

Rare [Tim Bradford Imagine]

Summary: Sergeant Tim Bradford giving out a rare compliment to fbi!reader.

You pull into the LAPD precinct parking lot, your heart a little heavier than usual. This isn’t just another case. This is big. The kind of investigation that could make or break careers. And you’re here to help crack it wide open. You step out of your car, adjusting the strap of your bag, your fingers brushing against the folder of case files that you’ve practically memorized at this point.

The weight of the files in your hands doesn’t quite match the way your pulse picks up as you head inside. The familiar scent of coffee and floor cleaner greets you as you walk through the door, but it’s the low hum of voices and tense energy that catches your attention. This isn’t a typical day.

You scan the room and immediately spot Agent Bennett and Agent Carter talking with a group of LAPD officers. But there’s someone who stands out more than the others.

You’ve heard of him — everyone has. The guy who doesn’t crack under pressure, doesn’t let his guard down. He’s the sort of officer who runs the show, doesn’t waste words, and keeps his cool no matter what. You’re not sure what to expect from him, but you know this: he's an integral part of the operation, and today, you need to work together to make it happen.

The agents introduce you to the group. When it’s time for you to meet Sergeant Bradford, he steps toward you, his posture straight and commanding. You notice the way the room seems to subtly quiet when he speaks — his presence is undeniable. You offer your hand with a calm, steady smile, ready to make a good impression.

“Agent Y/L/N,” you say softly, your voice warm but firm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been following the case closely, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

His gaze meets yours, direct and unwavering. For a moment, there’s no hint of a smile, just the serious, sharp eyes of a man used to being in control.

“Sergeant Bradford,” he responds, his voice low and steady, matching the intensity of his gaze. “I’ve heard about your work. Welcome to the team.” His grip on your hand is firm, but not overpowering. You feel his strength, but there’s a gentleness in his touch that catches you off guard.

For a moment, you stand there, the air between you thick with an unspoken understanding. You know what kind of person he is: no-nonsense, tough, and professional. But you can’t help but wonder if there’s more beneath the surface, something softer — something you might be able to see in time.

The briefing begins, and you fall into your role seamlessly. You’ve always been good at balancing your calm demeanor with the sharp instincts of a seasoned FBI agent. You know when to listen, when to speak, and when to assert yourself.

When the conversation turns to tactical planning, you’re right there with Agent Bennett, suggesting methods and approaches with precision. It’s clear that you’re not here just to observe — you’re here to lead in your own right, to make sure things go according to plan.

Bradford’s eyes flicker toward you every so often as you speak, his sharp gaze taking in your every word, your every movement. You catch a few of those lingering glances, but you focus on the mission. You won’t let the undercurrent of tension distract you.

Hours later, the team is ready. The mission is about to begin. You’re suited up and prepared, but as you head to the vehicle, you sense that the weight of the operation is hitting everyone. This isn’t just about busting a few low-level criminals. The Syndicate is deeply embedded, and taking them down will require precision, intelligence, and nerves of steel.

The team moves into position. It’s all business now, and you can feel the switch flipping inside you. You aren’t just the soft-spoken agent anymore — you’re in your element, and it’s time to make things happen. You lead your team with efficiency, coordinating every move, making split-second decisions that could mean the difference between success and failure. You bark orders when needed, move with purpose, and show no hesitation when things get tense. You’re tough. You’re sharp. You’re exactly what this team needs.

The operation goes smoothly, thanks in no small part to your quick thinking and ability to read the situation. You move with precision, cutting through the chaos with ease. The criminals are rounded up, the evidence secured, and your team is on top of everything.

As the dust settles and the team regroups, Bradford approaches you. You can see the shift in his expression now — there’s something different. A look of genuine admiration, maybe even a bit of respect, in his eyes.

“Impressive,” he says, his voice low but carrying a weight that makes the compliment feel earned. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so… decisive.”

You raise an eyebrow, not letting the moment go to your head. “I know how to get things done, Sergeant. It’s part of the job.”

He extends his hand toward you with a firm, confident grip, his gaze steady as he meets yours. "Tim," he says, his voice low and purposeful, almost as if he’s offering you a chance to bridge the gap between formalities and something more personal. You hesitate for just a moment, then smile, a soft but knowing curve of your lips as you place your hand in his. "YN," you reply, your voice calm yet clear, the weight of your full name still lingering in the air, a small but significant gesture of professional respect between you two.

Tim chuckles, the sound almost surprising coming from him. “You’ve definitely earned your spot on this team.”

Before you can reply one of the other LAPD officers, leans in with a grin. "Look at that," he says to his partner, loud enough for the group to hear. “Bradford’s actually giving compliments. That’s a first.”

The group laughs, and even Tim lets out a low chuckle, though his expression stays serious. He shakes his head, but there’s a glimmer of something softer in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says to them, but his gaze lingers on you for just a moment longer than necessary.

You meet his gaze, the tension between you two still there, but now, it feels different. Not cold or distant, but… charged. The respect, the admiration, the undeniable pull between you. It’s a quiet understanding, but it’s there.

[theandersenjournals]

I love you vinnnnneeee....... vinnnyyyyy of everymanhybrid youre awesome.

vinnie fucking awesome. i like him alot. im obsessed with characters trapping themselves in their own tragedy, until it gets pried from their own hands. okay so the thing about vinny is that he's the most outgoing of the three in a more traditioal sense, as in it's him who runs the channel, the main face, hes our protagonist, really, not the MAIN character but the guy we wanna see, and the other two acknolwedge this in the fitness arc like earrlly on. he's a character that deteriorates, he starts strong, the leader, "jeff we have to keep filming or this prankster wins", hes positive and bright and comes up with their ideas

and then "jokes over" hits and we are sent spiralling into the unknown. jeff i love you. the where-is-jessa arc also introduces damsel/steph, i love you , jeff i love you guy who responds poorly to tragedy. but anyways vinnie is like, oh damn, okay, well this fucking blows. and he keeps filming. because thats what vinny does.

cue the long running middle arcs of the series, alex miseries, HABIT, onwards, outside help, you know the drill. and we finally start seeing the slow, cheese-grating has started making a dent on good ol vinn. now, listen, hes a guy who makes a decision and fucking trucks on that path no matter what, so despite it all, despite the hesitation, the misery, he keeps going!!

this is his cycle. he is the voyeur. he will watch. he will drown in the misery of his fate. and its him that dooms them. That's how it's always been! through every iteration! Patrick confirms this in tower on the lake, through Dr. James Corenthal, vinny suffered this fate, The Voyeur will always suffer this fate.

Vinny keeps going. he puts up cameras. he keeps filming. he pressures others into his train-car-off-the-bridge and hes suffocating but he'll see it through. and he's burning out. HABIT ensures this, through the entrapment era, his growing strength being Vinny's doom, until he's less and less of himself, more and more of a pawn, easier to manipulate, easier to hurt. And then. [Three's company.] Vinny drugs, complies. they kill shaun. and Vinny wakes up. The straw, really, not Shaun himself, but the circumstance- Vinnie realizes hes been complicit for far too long.

Vinny: I can`t get used to killing innocent people for no reason. HABIT: Well that's the only way were gonna win! [chuckling under breath] Vinny: Then I don't want to win. HABIT: What? Vinny: I don't want another person to die because of me so I can live. I rather die myself.

good, strong vinny starts to give up. and this begins the worst part. [blue room]. the psychological torture. Vinny is locked in Jeff's room. the gun. you know how it goes guys. and then [christmas]

Vince: Not good. And it's not even because, y'know, I feel bad or I'm scared. I'm not good because I don't feel anything. It's just -- what am I doing? Why am I doing this?

why am i doing this?

Guys, why do we keep filming? they say it in every series. why are we still filming? micheal says we're spreading the virus. Stan says the same. They all say but we can't stop. and it's funny; because; when that camera goes off, alot of them are saved. So many people don't have to die; they just have to stop filming. But Vinn doesnt. He cant. why? why even at his lowest, why does he still edit? film?

Vince: Who knows how many people have died. I've been in control of myself this whole time. I've been in control. I'm still pushing forward. I don't think you're a monster. He's using you, but you're not a monster. I feel like I'm becoming a monster.

instead of stopping filming, he asks us, to stop Watching. and THAT is who vinny is. blame is SHIFTING. theres always a reason. this is HABITs fault, slendermans fault, it the audiences fault, because vinny is afraid of what it means when they arent. "I promise I'm a good person." "I'm starting to feel like a monster." (the finale's rage shifting between evan and vinny on whos worse, who did what.) HABIT knows this. sees this. gives him leeway. youre the guardian. youre good. and hes not. hes not because hes the voyuer, and this is a cycle he can't end, because vinny does Not KNOW when to stop.

evan goes on, this is the FINALE, the beautiful last moment, so we see everythign again. its all recontextualized; what Vinny did, how many he's fed to the Rake, to Slenderman, to HABIT. How long he's been pointing his camera at victims, this puts a whole new spin on everything. and we see it. we see how heavy Vinn's hand has been in his own downfall.

Evan: [chortles] I can forgive you...but I gotta kill you first, okay? At least, through all this shit... Evan: ...I'll kill at least one fucking monster before I go!

and this has to end, and Vinn does what he alwasy does, desperate to protect himself, desperate to protect his own mind and heart;

Vince: I'm the monster? Do you know what you did to me, for years—what you did to our friends? Your own child?

vinn runs from blame , because thats his only defense, and. Then. it breaks. It only breaks- at the end. they killed all their monsters. Sort of.

Vince: Fuck, Evan. Damn it. Vince: I don't know if we're monsters… or just a couple of unlucky bastards. [He closes his eyes.] Vince: I'm sorry…

and this is how it all ends. this is the end of our iteration. vin, side by side with his best friend, blinks away tears, covered in his own blood and the blood of the person he can never leave, and this is the end. and he accepts it. we. we did this.

Just a couple of unlucky bastards. victims of monsters and cycles we could never even begin to understand.

vinny puts the camera down. his happy ending hinged on it. its very human, isnt it?

does ANYONE THINK ABOUT THAT FUCKING CAMERAAAAAA

[blitzwhore]

Hello! I'd like to ask if you've seen the post with the screenshots that says Stolas inflicts his own torment by going with Stella's whims despite having more power and prestige than her. There is a rebuttal, of course, but someone else also added that the reason people think as the screenshot says is because the writers didn't put enough emphasis and reason on the hold Stella has over Stolas and his fear of her, as well as the fact that her apparent uninvolvement with Octavia makes his reason to stick with her seems very weak. They do put an intriguing essay on how the fear of Stella for Stolas could have stand out more.

Personally I think that he's probably desensitised and numb to her after with Paimon as well and the image of a nuclear family is a must for both society and daughter. Perhaps we'll have more answers in s3. What do you think?

Drink water regularly, may a good week come to you.

Hi! I haven't seen that post, no.

When I see posts arguing about the quality of the show's writing I almost always ignore them, because I'm not interested in discourse and I want my blog to be a place that's fun for me and others to scroll through. I don't want fandom wank and 'criticism of the show' on my blog because I go into fandom spaces to have fun, not to get angry. So if I'd seen that post, I probably would've just sighed really hard and kept scrolling.

That being said, because this ask touches on a subject matter that is extremely personal to me, I'll bite and share my personal opinion, which is that the writing is perfectly executed exactly as it is. Helluva Boss is a show for a mature audience—it says so at the beginning of every episode. That doesn't just mean "hey, there's sex and drugs in these episodes". It also means, "hey, some heavy themes are going to be handled in this show, and we're not going to hold your hand and walk you through them. It's up to you to use your media literacy and critical thinking skills to pick up on the things we're going to show you".

And maybe it's because I'm an abuse survivor myself and I know exactly what it feels like to go through decades of abuse, and maybe other viewers' interpretation of Stolas' character is completely different, but... I personally had zero trouble picking up on Stolas' motivations, fears, and emotions, or on why he made each decision at each turn throughout the show.

I'll put the rest of my answer under a cut, because it's personal and rambly. But in short: yeah, I do agree with what you said at the end of your ask.

1. "He's more powerful and has a higher status than Stella, so he's inflicting his pain on himself by not standing up to her"

So there's this thing called learned helplessness, and, fun fact, it is heavily linked with PTSD and depression.

"(...) Learned helplessness occurs when someone repeatedly faces uncontrollable, stressful situations and does not exercise control when it becomes available. They have “learned” that they are helpless in that situation and no longer try to change it, even when change is possible." (source)

It's not about the power and capability to control the situation Stolas actually has. It's about the power and control he feels he has—which is none. Zero. He says this to us constantly. "Owl in a cage", "you have no choice", "my entire life's been written in stone, he taught me that I could choose".

He was told since he was a kid that his duties, his marriage, his life trajectory were non-negotiable. He never knew a life outside of his palace—his gilded jail. He doesn't know what we as the audience know—that there's a whole world out there where he can build a better life for himself with people who actually love him—because he's been raised to be a pawn in a game much bigger than himself, and he knows it. I don't need (and don't want) the show to spoonfeed me this fact. It's spelled all over his character if you know how to see it.

2. "Stella's hold of Stolas and his fear of her aren't emphasised enough in the show"

Stella literally tries to hit him at the end of The Circus and looks shocked and taken aback when he grabs her wrist to stop her. I don't need them to show me Stella hitting Stolas 15 times in order to know she's been doing it.

He hugs himself and makes himself small, walking away to remove himself from the situation as quickly and quietly as possible, when Blitz starts yelling at him in The Full Moon. I don't need them to show me Stella yelling at Stolas 20 times to know she's been yelling at him for years. We've seen her yelling at him in Loo Loo Land, in The Circus and in Seeing Stars. We know it happens. We know it always has.

I also don't need them to tell me that repeated physical and verbal abuse causes a victim to become extremely afraid of their abuser and causes them to be triggered by anything and anyone that makes them feel unsafe, because I've lived it in my skin. And I know plenty of people who watch the show who are not abuse survivors, and they're also able to see that Stolas is behaving like any abuse victim exactly with zero support would act.

In the moment, he freezes and flees. He makes himself smaller. He gets away from the situation in any way he can. He "keeps the peace" to keep the abuse to a minimum, doing anything and everything to please the people around him because that's the only way he can feel some semblance of control. ("Yes, if that's what Blitzy wants" / "Do you like it when I talk to you dirty?" / just him sheltering Octavia from his suffering to be the perfect parent for her, and give her everything she could ever want and need, going as far as making promises he couldn't keep).

In the long run, he becomes hopeless and drowns in guilt. He assumes he probably deserves what's happening to him, and thinks it's his own fault that he's so affected by the abuse for being too weak to stand up for himself. He blames himself for not being good enough for the people around him ("I'll believe him, and not the voice that says I'm not enough"), and mentally berates himself for being a coward and a failure, and for not knowing how to put an end to his suffering. He turns to passive (sometimes active) suicidality because that's genuinely the only way he can see of getting back control over his own body and life. ("When I'm gone you'll be okay" / "I'll give my life to clean your slate" / "I don't care what they fucking do, I'm seeing Octavia" / "do it, pussy").

3. Stella's uninvolvement with Octavia makes Stolas' reason to stay with Stella seem very weak

I... Look. I can't be the only one who grew up in a broken family, and surrounded by plenty other broken families. Kids, especially small kids, can't rationalise that family relationships don't always work out and sometimes divorce is the best option for everyone involved. Especially not in this society we live in, where divorce/separation are seen as a failure, and children are (at least passively) taught that divorce is their fault.

Stolas knows all this. He doesn't want Via to feel like she's growing up in a broken house, which is what separating from Stella would accomplish. We also don't know if Stolas would've kept custody of Octavia had he divorced Stella when Via was little. But it's very likely he didn't want to risk leaving Via alone with Stella, even just half the time. Especially not when Octavia has been having nightmares and crying over the mere thought of being abandoned by Stolas. Divorcing Stella would very likely result in Octavia feeling abandoned by him.

I don't know, man. I feel like I don't even have the right words to reply to this point. I still remember being 8 and sensing that something was very wrong with my parents and feeling like it was my responsibility to fix it, or else my world would end. Stolas tried his best to protect Octavia from feeling this way, from feeling responsible for anything that happened between her parents. He just wanted her to be happy. The only way he could do that was by playing 'happy family' in front of her so she could grow up carefree. He tried his best to give her enough love that she wouldn't feel the absence of her mother's love. I really don't know what else to say to this.

If you want media to spoon-feed you its themes and hold your hand as it shows you what each character is going through, then... I don't know, man. Stick to media that does that. There's media out there that genuinely does this really well. Heartstopper, for example. The Hunger Games, in a way. But maybe think twice before diving into adult media meant for mature audiences and criticising it for wanting you to be a mature viewer. Maybe it's just not for you.

Anyway. I'm gonna drink water now, please drink some water too if you're reading this (included, but not limited to, the asker). Hope you all have a nice day ❤️

[blueskittlesart]

me, thinking that i have at least a base level understanding of botw: :)

blue, about to write a 1,000+ word essay that is going to completely revamp my understanding of the game and interpretation of its events: bada bing bada boom

i dont know how you do it. i am incredibly impressed and using all of this for fic inspiration. keep writing

every time someone asks me how i do this shit i have to regrettably inform them that the real genuine answer is that i am fucking insane. my 2 passions in life are writing and video games and the place where the 2 converge fascinates me to no end and i am that special kind of crazy that is capable of latching onto something and not thinking about anything else for 10 years. so. the only thing i have cared about deeply for the last several years of my life has been the way video games are written and constructed. and zelda is one of the most interestingly constructed franchises i have found to date. these games are just like. the absolute perfect story for my brain to work with and i truly do not know who i would be without them. and i am genuinely incredibly grateful that ive been able to build a platform where people like. CARE about what i have to say and take the time to ask me to think about the games because like. i would be doing it ANYWAY but knowing that there are people who actually read my analysis and appreciate the amount of thought i put into this stuff makes me really happy lol

[fruitageoforanges]

saw a post about how rhaegar was the best-placed person to stand up to aerys and how he failed, and now i have brainworms about it.

because he was (short of… well, robert, it turns out), and he did fail. he was too weak when it counted to ultimately save his wife and children. there are no heroes. grand designs always fail at the level of a man. and men are weak and fallible.

(side note: not anti-rhaegar. clown on this post at your peril.)

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

pls i agree with the previous anon. like i need to see how your mind works. LIKE THE AMOUNT OF LORE YOU PUT INTO THIS STORY? no wonder you was struggling to write this chapter. no wonder you had to split it. YOURE PUTTING EVERYTHING INTO IT. i adore you.

i just love how you do megumi justice. like from what we hear from others (oh my god he was such a menace. jumping out of vehicles? biting people? willing to summon his ace just to spite everyone? trying to electrocute his uncle?) he has so much fire in him. he’s such a little shit. i love him. i’m so tired of everyone portraying him as some emotionless bland character. the dudebros don’t know him the way i do 🙁.

i’m honestly just itching to see yuuta spill the beans on his attachment to megumi like…would gojo actually be willing to kick that kid ass. IF ANYTHING gojo should consider this a win. the son he birthed from his gojoussy (i was there. i was the one cutting the cord ofc shh) has a loyal protector.

but in all honesty i have so many theories. like about mai, she might pop out to get the books & shit for her nephew? who knowsss.

the answer to how my mind works is “not well.” imagine a waiting room where the staff are only in attendance for 30 minutes per day (it’s never the same 30 minutes) and there is a hamster inexplicably lose. there are fish tanks but they are empty ones. you do not know what the business is or why you are waiting. dont stop me now by queen is playing on endless loop

[glassanimalcollective]

.

[gs29]

A New Role

Squid Game Master list

*Where a guard brings his wife into the twisted world of the game.*

It was her first day.

Y/N stood in the cold, dimly lit hallway of the facility, the clattering of footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. The thick, oppressive air made her skin feel tight as she adjusted the mask over her face. The square-shaped symbol on her chest was a stark reminder of the world she had just entered, a world she’d only heard whispers of.

Her husband, the square guard, stood beside her, his towering figure imposing even in the muted light. The same mask he wore—the one with the sharp, angular lines—was a symbol of his rank. It wasn’t just the uniform that made him intimidating, it was his quiet, calculated demeanor. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, his voice always carried a weight of authority.

Today, though, he was different. Today, he was her protector.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. He gave her a quick glance, his dark eyes searching hers beneath their shared masks.

She nodded, her stomach a knot of nerves. She couldn’t believe this was happening. This was the same man she had shared a quiet life with before everything went wrong—the same man who had once promised her that nothing would ever come between them.

Now here they were, in a place where everything was twisted, where survival was a daily fight, and death was the ultimate price for failure.

As they walked deeper into the compound, she glanced at the other guards—some of them she recognized from the few times her husband had returned home covered in blood, his face unreadable. They were all masked, faceless entities in a system that stripped away their identities.

“Your role is simple,” he said, his tone firm, “Follow my lead, keep your composure, and don’t falter. There’s no room for mistakes here.”

She could feel his hand brush lightly against hers, a small gesture, but it was enough to ground her. His presence was the only thing that felt familiar in this cold, foreign place.

They arrived at a control room of sorts, where a few other guards stood at attention, awaiting instructions. The walls were adorned with security monitors, each one showing a different part of the arena. The players were scattered across the different zones, oblivious to the constant surveillance.

Her husband gave her a brief look of reassurance before turning to his colleagues. “She’s new. Keep an eye on her.”

“Understood,” a voice answered. But Y/N wasn’t paying attention to the others. She could feel her pulse quicken as the gravity of her situation settled in.

“You’ll assist with monitoring the players,” he continued, his voice low. “Do exactly as I say. When we issue commands, you give them. And when I tell you to step back, you step back. Do not hesitate.”

Her heart raced as she followed him over to one of the security stations. A small, handheld device was placed in her hands. It was used to issue commands to the players, to manipulate the game’s flow. Every decision, every word, had consequences here. She had no experience, no training, just the faint knowledge of what her husband had told her in hushed voices during the rare moments they had together at home.

“Stay calm,” he said again, his voice a touch gentler now. His large hand rested briefly on her shoulder, grounding her. “We’re in this together. You’ll be fine.”

Y/N nodded, taking a slow breath. She had to believe that. Because right now, it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Minutes passed, and the arena’s chaos played out on the monitors. The players were caught in the middle of one of the many deadly challenges, each one fighting for their lives as guards directed their movements. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. She could see the fear in the eyes of the players, their desperation palpable even through the screens. But her job wasn’t to feel sorry for them. Her job was to watch, to ensure the game continued without disruption.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted the controls, sending a message to the players. Move. Follow the line. The words seemed so simple, so impersonal, but they held so much weight.

Her husband noticed her hesitation and stepped closer, his voice soft yet insistent. “Press the button,” he commanded, his voice unwavering.

For a split second, Y/N hesitated. But she looked back at him, at the cold, unfeeling mask that hid his true expression. She knew that in this place, hesitation meant danger.

With a shaky breath, she pressed the button. The alarm blared, signaling the immediate intervention of other guards. The young man was quickly restrained, dragged off-screen, and the game continued.

Y/N couldn’t breathe. The weight of what she had just done—what she had just been forced to be a part of—was heavy, suffocating. She felt sick.

Her husband noticed the change in her demeanor, but he said nothing. He simply placed a hand on her back and guided her to a quiet corner of the room.

“You’re doing fine,” he said softly. “You’re learning how to survive. This is the only way we get out of here.”

Y/N wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t want this—that she didn’t want to be a part of it. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw the same helplessness, the same resignation. He didn’t want this either. But they had no choice.

Not anymore.

For now, all they had was each other—and the grim reality that survival in this world came at the cost of their humanity.

And as the games played on outside, Y/N knew there was no turning back.

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

so, prior to learning that toga died, I was in the process of writing an ending where toga and touya escape prison and call you remembering that your family helps villain refugees (ACTUALLY I POSTED A LITTLE BIT OF IT I FORGOT), and basically he becomes part of your group so toga didn't have to and she could just be normal finally (which you were very clear that NEITHER of them needed to do anything but touya doesn't really know how to exist outside of service and I don't think he'd like feeling indebted to people).

But basically, this actually ends up being a very chill, low-key happy/bittersweet ending where you three kinda become a little villain family unit and it's the only universe where you and touya have a kid.

And this is a really long way of me saying that I realized if you and touya had a son he would probably end up looking a lot like Ekko actually lol